


The Kardasi Attack On MI6

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Gunplay, Holodecks/Holosuites, Humiliation, Humor, James Bond References, M/M, Masochism, POV Elim Garak, POV Third Person, Pain, Public Sex, Roleplay, Safewords, Sex, Spies & Secret Agents, Teasing, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: For Julian's birthday, Garak writes a most unique program for the holosuite: one that he and Julian might enjoy in private.Garak plays the villain, and Julian the dashing hero of MI6 - the program is not as simple as Julian might have hoped, and Garak plans to have him in numerous pieces before he is returned to M's desk.





	1. The Seduction Begins

Ah, birthdays. Such an enjoyable little thing, and it is pleasing to see Julian waiting at their lunch table, sipping at his Tarkalean tea and looking sleepily into his soup. Oh, and he does look rather tired, which is something of a worry in this case, as Garak would really hope for him being something more alive by 12:30.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Garak asks after posing his order to one of the young Ferengi fellows – Mag is the name of this one, and he's a particularly squirrelly creature, new to the station and especially devious, even by the stalwart standards set on Ferenginar.

Garak likes him, and because Garak makes his enjoyment of his company clear with particularly good tips, his meal will come very swiftly indeed.

“I'm just a little fatigued, that's all,” Julian says softly, and he looks at Garak with his lovely, Human, doe-like eyes. So exotically strange, that face, with its curves and golden brown colouring, the lack of ridge or bone, so foreign and soft. Biting is common in Cardassian relationships and teeth do little damage to scales and hard flesh, but that soft skin, _oh_ , how it would bleed!

What a deviant his father would think him now. The idea thrills him as much as it chills his already cool blood.

“Fatigued? Why ever is that? I don't believe I've offered you cause to be so. Not this week, anyway, unless you're still recovering from the other day...” Julian gives a rueful little chuckle, and then he puts his arms above his head to stretch.

What a charming sight it is too, that arch of spine, that baring of his neck and curving of his back like an obedient young Cardassian displaying their body for an older partner. Of course, Julian Bashir has never been especially obedient, vehement about bedroom equality as he often is. But not always: thus Garak’s rather inspired (if he says so himself) gift.

“Miles managed to convince me to come kayaking last night-” Garak begins to laugh. “He's upset, Garak, he's lonely without Keiko on the ship, and I just wanted to cheer him up a little. It was the anniversary of their first date.”

“You never celebrate the anniversary of _our_ first date, my dear doctor,” Garak complains in a faux-meek, faux-offended tone. Julian stares at him, and Garak bats his eyelids as if he has the odd hair there the Humans carry. Julian's smile is a small one, but it's warm and sweetly amused. “Oh, and, Doctor?”

“Hmm?”

“Happy birthday.” Julian laughs, and then he nods, as if having suddenly remembered. Garak wonders if he'd honestly forgotten, for a moment or two – and yes, Garak thinks he had. Goodness, he oughtn't have reminded him; young Miss Dax was to throw a party for him tonight, and it would have been amusing to see him walk into that unthinking.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Garak.”

“It had slipped your mind, I presume?” A pause, and then Julian nods his head. He lets out a quiet sigh, eyes drooping closed for a moment. He so often forgets that which is so important to his friends, although it ought be important to him, perhaps. Garak knows he only remembered his last birthday because of the impending _doom_ of his reaching thirty years. “You know, my dear, while I'm certain Miss Dax has organized some sort of event for you, I imagine she can be convinced to postpone it until you've slept.”

The stubborn thing shakes his head, looking at Garak with his boyish grin. Too old to be boyish, in truth, and yet-

Perhaps it's his odd, bald face, lacking as it is in ridges and scales and sufficient skin. He simply looks so _young,_ so sweet, so easily devoured.

“Oh, I'd never turn down a party, Garak!” Julian insists, and Garak hums, amused. Julian leans forwards slightly, eyes flickering to Garak's sides, and he surreptitiously attempts to glance at the back of the Cardassian's chair. So polite; not actually asking, but attempting a subtle, perfunctory investigation. He is learning the subtleties he might have learned on Cardassia Prime, and that idea gently titillates some possessive, imaginative part of Garak’s psyche.

“Are you looking for something, my dear?” Garak asks, heavily entertained; Julian's cheeks darken somewhat in response.

“Uh, no, Garak, I was just- ah,” He sheepishly reaches up and rubs the back of his neck – it is so charming when he does that. Such a strange Human custom, for the back of the neck being touched to indicate sheepishness, but then, he supposes as it is not so erogenous a zone as for his own species, it has a very different function amongst Humans.

“Looking for your present?”

“Not that I expect one! At all! I just-” Garak sets the holosuite program on the table between them, and Julian beams, honestly, even though he likely expects it to be another Cardassian mystery or other. “Thank you, Garak,” Julian says, warmly enough.

“It is crafted after one of your James Bond simulations.” Garak says, and Julian's lovely brown eyes light up with excitement, and he grabs at the program excitedly.

“Oh, thank you so much! I-”

“I would not suggest, my dear, that you share this particular simulation with your compatriots on the Operations team.” The grin falters, and for a few moments the young doctor just regards Garak with a curious and slightly worried expression that can only be described as owlish. “It was written with you and I in mind, in fact; you, of course, in the title role-”

Garak chooses this moment to take a very deliberate sip of his tea, leaving his self-interruption to hang in the air and affect Julian to look very frustrated indeed, though he doesn't let out the irritated sound Garak would have enjoyed, and he does not wriggle in his seat as Garak had hoped.

“And I in that of the villain.” The speed with which Julian lets out a disbelieving laugh is, frankly, quite offensive.

“ _You_?” He can be so _cheeky_ , this young man – such derision!

“Yes, me,” Garak says primly, and young Bashir looks rather skeptical. “Though by all means, if you would like to invite Lieutenant Dax and her husband, or perhaps Chief O'Brien, to torture Agent 007's secrets out of him via extensive genital attention, do feel free.”

“Gen- Oh.” The doctor's eyes widen, his lips curving into a particularly pretty “o”, reminiscent in its momentary naivety as when he'd introduced himself to Julian Subatoi Bashir for the first time in this very Replimat. Very- cute. A human idea, but a relevant one. “Oh. So it's- it's that sort of program?”

“It is a long and complicated plot, during which you will be captured several times. There are multiple endings to the simulation, of course. It did take me a fair while to write.”

“You wrote this?” Julian asks, and his voice suddenly becomes somewhat more tender. He sounds almost surprised, and yet as if he admires the time Garak has put in, and the artistic thought.

“Well, yes. I was hardly going to contact a holocreator with a commission,” Garak murmurs, deciding to dispense with mystery on this particular topic – after all, in order to draw Julian yet further into some of the more intricate and magical of his deceptions, it does no harm to very occasionally offer the truth. It will make his later indignation all the more entertaining.

“So, tonight...?” Oh, and he looks so hopeful. Silly boy.

“Tonight?” Garak repeats, and then he tuts, letting out a low exhalation that does not quite become a whistle, but is plainly disapproving of tone all the same. “I think not. You've a party to go to, my dear doctor, and I should hate to deprive Miss Dax of an excuse to infuriate her husband with an exuberant affair.”

“Will you be coming?” Julian asks, tone slightly wheedling because he does want Garak to come, and he knows full well what Garak is going to say.

“I think not,” Garak answers, just as the young doctor had expected.

“But-”

“No,” Garak says firmly, and Julian looks at him amusedly.

“I love it when you're stern with me,” Julian says sweetly, and it is disturbingly similar to the tone he had once used with Jadzia Dax while trying to seduce her. Garak regards him with a slightly pinched expression, discomfited but quite unwilling to explain why for the time being.

“The night after next would be my suggestion,” Garak says, in a tone that brokers no “suggestion” at all. Bashir bites his lip and worries the flesh under his teeth, not because he is nervous, but because he is provocative, and knows very well how to affect the other man. Under the table, Garak subtly presses his knees together, but Julian knows, and he smiles. “My dear, I don't know what it is you're smiling about. I assure you, after our holosuite session, you will be aching, tired, and possibly not even satiated.”

Julian's cheeks darken, and his gaze flickers around the Replimat, as if he's worried someone might be listening. Garak is satisfied.

 ---

The wait is- not pleasant.

It is in Cardassian nature to savour sensation, whether it involve food, fashion, sex or some other pleasure; waiting is to be enjoyed also, given its promise of soon delight. To some extent, Garak appreciates the wait, but he is impatient, and he wants for Julian.

For as much as it is Bashir's gift, Garak had put much thought into mutual enjoyment, and he is most eager to get under way.

It is at 1700 hours that Julian Bashir arrives in the holosuite, quite made-up in his Bond tuxedo. Garak wears something similar, but of a higher grade: he wears a suit of black cloth, and around his neck is a more modern tie, made of green silk, matching the square in his pocket. They will come of more practical use later, but for the time being they exist only to titillate.

“Oh,” Julian says. It comes out oddly, as Garak had expected; he looks the Cardassian up and down  with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, evidently very titillated indeed. “You- you look, um, you look nice, I mean?”

“Why, thank you, Doctor,” Garak says lightly. “You look nice too.” He lets that compliment linger for a moment or two, enjoying the way Bashir preens for a moment, before he goes on to give a rough idea as to plot. “Now, to begin with, you will move quite naturally. M will send your mission statement through to here, your headquarters, and you'll have a quite simple task ahead of you.”

“And then?” Julian presses, and Garak smiles at him.

“And then, Agent Bond will be captured by a new nemesis: Garak,” the Cardassian purrs, leaning forwards and slowly cupping the other's cheek with his right hand, the movement smooth and fluid. “And an interrogation will ensue.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Julian asks, and he leans into Garak's hand, and his flesh is so warm against the older man's skin. Charming, charming, it truly is.

“Quite. Your safety word?” It's an important question to ask, and Bashir does not make any jokes or create upset about it; he knows to be straightforward.

“Federation,” Garak makes a clipped sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Mmm, a fine turn-off,” he says, and Bashir's lips twitch; he grins at the other man, and somehow that's made yet more irritating by the bow tie about his neck. “I shall see you, Agent Bond. If I might issue an extra challenge-”

Garak's hands move to adjust the other's tie, undoing it before moving to tie it back into place more symmetrically than before. “If you can stay in character for the entirety of the simulation, I will add an extra reward.”

“What sort of reward?” Julian asks, honestly curious.

“Hmm, some new pyjamas, perhaps. And a matching pair for Kukulaka.” The name still feels foreign and utterly ridiculous on his tongue, but once it comes from his mouth Bashir melts, and he beams at the Cardassian with complete and utter delight on his face.

“You would tailor pyjamas for my teddy bear?” Julian presses, and his voice becomes soft and warm and tender. What a ridiculously sentimental young thing he is; Garak delights in it when truly he ought shun the weakness for what it is.

“As a reward for a difficult task? Oh, yes,” Garak says, and as he so often does these days, ignores the urge to do as he should, and instead does as his whims dictate. “Now, off you go.” He pats the younger man's arse affectionately, and Julian lets out a short, quiet laugh.

“Shouldn't I be giving the orders?” Oh, Garak does enjoy that silly put-on voice, with its faux deepness and maturity. Not that the young man isn't mature – oh, he gets better day by day, though Garak could still have him run through skipping ropes and hoops if the mood struck him – but not in this way. He is not embittered as his character is.

Garak smiles at him, amused, and withdraws from sight.

 ---

The note from M calls for a simple extraction: get on the train from Omsk to Moscow, and whilst travelling find Felicity Kingston, a woman of questionable morals. Take her briefcase, containing numerous documents of great importance, by any means necessary.

Felicity Kingston, the rich and powerful head of the Kardasi Crime Organization – Garak's outward face, as it were. He'd rather enjoyed creating her character, and now he watches amusedly as Julian manages to wheedle his way into her carriage. He knows precisely what strategy the young man will try to utilize; he'd designed the program to be difficult. To be challenging, in more ways than one.

Miss Kingston is reading when Bashir enters, and she arches a graceful eyebrow, her lips parting slightly as she glances in his direction. Her skin is darker than Julian's, but her fingernails carry a green paint not dissimilar to the natural colour of the Ferengi nails, and at her eyes is liner to accentuate their shape.

“Agent Bashir,” she says, in clean, English tones, her accent clear and ringing through the room. “You took so long to find me. Is there another Felicity Kingston on the train?” she teases, and the book is closed and laid upon the table.

“If there was, however could she compare?” Julian says in his flirtatious way, and he raises the gun – a Beretta, apparently – and aims it squarely at her face. “You know what I'm here for.” She adjusts her legs, crossing one over the other; those legs are wrapped in stockings beneath dress, and the dress itself is of a green that matches her nails, cut low to show her breasts. It is crass, and not adventurous in its design, but the fabric is quite delightful.

Her shoes have been pushed from her stocking-clad feet, and they lie neatly on the floor, beside the briefcase.

“You're here for me,” Felicity purrs, and she stands, making her way forwards; her hips cant from side to side as she moves, and it is a grace Garak greatly appreciates. She is such a truly attractive young woman: he had designed her with some care, and with much inspiration taken from the original novels by Mr. Fleming.

“I'm afraid not,” Julian returns in a quiet and seductive tone, and the Beretta's muzzle presses against her belly. “The briefcase, Miss Kingston. I don't have time for recreation.”

“A shame,” comes the response, so sweet, so convincing. She steps back, picks up the case, and throws it to him. Garak sees Julian's brow furrow as he carries it from the carriage, and he does as he ought, getting from the train at the next stop and making his way to a private airfield.

He sees Julian thinking about it on the accelerated flight back to England, sees his confusion at having completed his task so very easily. Garak smiles as he touches down, travels into London, and he watches the young man as he enters his apartment to see Miss Kingston in his kitchen.

Oh, Garak will enjoy this part.

“Miss Kingston,” Agent Bashir says smoothly, as if he were expecting her to be waiting in his home. But then, he likely was.

“Agent Bashir,” Felicity returns, and Garak is unsurprised as Julian puts himself forwards, pressing his lips to hers and cupping the side of her face. So trusting. It's as if he's forgotten who wrote this simulation. “Oh, you have time for recreation now?” she asks when she pulls back from his mouth, regarding the young man for a moment or two.

“It would seem I do,” Julian agrees, and he has such confidence when he plays his spy character, such ridiculous charm. Garak does enjoy watching it, fooldhardy though it may be. But isn’t that the true trouble with his very fascination with Julian? It may indeed be the root of Garak’s every woe.

“Too bad I don't,” is the returned quip, and Julian's brow furrows: he is so confused at being rejected by a pretty woman in this simulation. Terribly amusing.

He drops when she delivers something not dissimilar to a Vulcan nerve pinch, and Garak watches the surroundings change, the holosuite creating cuffs that form about his wrists. Young Bashir is soon suspended, limp with his arms taut above his head, and oh, what a pretty sight that is.

Garak puts himself forwards as Felicity steps back, and he lets his fingers trail over the side of the younger man's jaw as he comes to, blinking confusedly at Garak.

“Mr Bashir. So nice to see you awake,” Garak says sweetly, his tone quite seductive as he looks up at the bound man.

“Who're you?” Julian asks in a low, hoarse tone. Even acting, he looks Garak up and down, tongue darting out from his mouth.

“Why, I don’t think that matters, do you?” Garak replies, and he steps slowly about the room the holosuite had created for them. It’s a square, dark grey environment, and silhouetted against one wall is a set of bars, through which moonlight shine through. Garak does like to draw on the traditional tropes, and he so enjoys this particular aesthetic in the Human literature. As he works, Felicity is working upon the briefcase Julian had so ridiculously brought home to MI6, without even checking inside!

Bashir, Julian Bashir might well be an amusing character, but much as he tries to serve his queen and country, he is an awful spy, and quite a terrible threat to his own national security – but there’s merely more amusement in that.

“Maybe it does,” Julian says, and Garak slaps him across the face. He doesn’t punch the younger man – Cardassian knuckles are far too heavily plated for him to punch Julian directly in the face, not without his actively wanting to knock him unconscious, but the palm of his hand can be done more gently. Julian is taking in his breaths a little faster now, his lip bleeding slightly, and Garak smiles a gentle smile at him. “I take that to mean I shouldn’t ask any more.”

“Indeed not,” Garak murmurs. He reaches out, taking Julian’s bowtie in his hands and adjusting it, tightening it and ensuring it rests symmetrically at his neck. “What is important to me, Mr Bashir, is you. I’ve heard such impressive things about your endeavours.”

“Have you indeed?” Julian asks, and he opens his mouth, experimentally shifting his jaw, as if to measure, in retrospect, how hard Garak had hit him. By no means does he appear dissatisfied. “And what things have you heard?”

“Oh, now is hardly the time to stroke your ego, Mr Bashir,” Garak murmurs, allowing his voice to trail off in a suggestive manner, and he allows one of his fingers to trace down the buttons on the shirt of his tuxedo, allowing minimal pressure to push each one against the skin of his chest. Julian breathes in, slowly, looking down at Garak’s hand. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Do MI6 appreciate you, Mr Bashir?” Garak purrs, his words soft and his fingers tracing over the buckle of Julian’s belt. “They might shower you with money, and your quartermaster might ply you with little trinkets, but you lack the freedom you might have without them breathing down your neck…” Garak’s fingers move sleekly over the leather, undoing it, and he draws the belt from the loops of Julian’s trousers with a soft _hiss_ of leather on cloth. “I could offer you the freedom to escape, Mr Bashir. All for just a few _tiny_ little secrets.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t even know your name,” Julian murmurs. “I hardly think I’m ready to tell you my secrets.” Garak takes Julian’s trousers by each hip, and with a short movement of his hands, he pulls _down_. Julian is wearing such lovely little boxers, and Garak smirks as he reaches for the waistband of those, as well, drawing them down. “No matter what manner of convincing you might have up your sleeve.”

Garak smirks. ”Perhaps save your answer until _after_ my convincing is complete, Mr Bashir,” and he sinks slowly to his knees.


	2. Chapter 2

“I think you’re being rather optimistic,” Julian says, trying for a light and conversational tone, but his cock is already flush with blood, and Garak can’t help but chuckle as he feels it under his fingers. So funny, this human anatomy that Garak has grown so fond of: he thinks it curious that they have evolved to keep their genitalia so open to attack. No everting is necessary for Garak to access Julian’s most sensitive parts, and oh, the novelty of his testicles!

How they delight him.

Julian’s deeply brown flesh is soft beneath the pads of his fingers, and Garak strokes slowly over the length of his cock before he reaches to hold it in his hand, drawing it through his grasp.

“Am I, Mr Bashir?” Garak asks, arching an eyeridge, and he hums to himself, stroking Julian to full hardness and thumbing back his foreskin. He must be very gentle, for he should hate to damage the man, and he imagines the wet, pink-brown skin of Julian’s head, which glistens with moisture in the dim light. “Oh,” Garak coos, implying disappointment. “I had expected some _gadgetry_.”

“I don’t need gadgets,” Julian replies, shifting as much as he can with his arms shackled above his head. “Why not let me go, so I can show you?”

“I think I’ll continue with my own examination for now,” Garak replies easily, and he squeezes gently, drawing his hand over the length of his prick with interest evident on his features. Julian closes his eyes, tilting his head back slightly, and Garak chuckles, leaning forwards and letting his tongue touch against the revealed flesh of Julian’s head.

Primarily, Garak tastes salt, with an undercurrent of bitterness he finds not at all distasteful. The taste of Julian intrigues and oft delights him, and it is no different now; he often likes to settle close to Julian and appreciate the subtle tastes and scents to him, kissing Julian in the morning, when he has yet to brush his teeth, drawing his tongue over Julian’s cock or his entrance, tasting the sweat that gathers at the back of his neck…

Of course, this is hardly the time to savour the young man. Garak has all the time in the world for that.

Garak lets his spare hand take hold of Julian, cupping his balls and rolling them gently between his thumb and fingers, teasingly, in a way that is not garnered to offer satisfaction. Garak closes his lips over Julian, sucking _ever_ so lightly at the hub of nerves that forms the _frenulum_ , and Julian lets out a low, shuddering moan.

“Oughtn’t you tell me your name, if we’re to be so intimate?” Garak chuckles, and he leans back, letting out a soft exhalation that he allows to blow over Julian’s doubly wetted head. The breath must be cool, because Julian shivers, and Garak leans in, drawing his open mouth over Julian’s inner thigh. Just as he hears the click of Julian’s jaw opening up, he bites a mark into the sensitive flesh before him, and Julian all but _yowls_ like a Vulcan sehlat.

Garak reaches out, drawing his fingers over his teeth marks – Julian bleeds ever so slightly, where some of Garak’s teeth had just punctured the skin, but mostly he’s just left hard abrasions. He pulls up Julian’s underwear, drawing them with some difficulty over his erection, and then pulls up his tuxedo trousers once more, buttoning them and belting them into place.

“What was that?” Julian asks, breathily. “A calling card?”

“A reminder,” Garak says, cupping his cheek. “For next time.” With the right hypospray, Julian’s head drops suddenly to the side, and Garak gently catches him as their surroundings melt away, being replaced by Bond’s apartment. The sun is shining in through the curtains, and Garak drops Julian into a chair, where a glass of bourbon sits in the chair beside him, half-drunk. As a finishing touch – for the sheer aesthetic – Garak ruffles Julian’s hair, and he steps out of sight as the thirty-second knock-out drug loses its effect.

Julian comes to suddenly, sitting up straight in the chair and frowning as he looks around the room. Garak can see him trying to put it together, analysing it in the way he might one of his usual Bond simulations – he’s such a sweet little cheat, this young man of his. Garak can see him performing the calculations in his mind, attempting to make parallels with existing James Bond plots so he can predict what might come next. It’s truly so hypocritical of him, given that he gets upset when Garak predicts the ridiculous turns of “plot” in his simple Human novels, but Garak has always been especially tolerant of hypocrisy: all good Cardassians are.

Garak watches as Julian gives up, moving to bathe himself and change into some clean clothes. His attention is particularly focused when he sees Julian in the hot, soapy water, gently touching his fingers over the new mark Garak has given him. It somewhat ruins the immersion, of course, for he can hardly believe he’s been unconscious for eight hours when the mark is as yet bleeding, but Garak knows Julian will forgive him.

 ---

“It was that easy, was it?” M asks, and he taps his pen upon his desk, watching Julian as he lounges in a chair in his superior’s office. Oh, how Garak would adore to see him do this to Sisko – the Captain might even be amused himself, given his odd sense of humour. “You just went in, took the briefcase, and returned?”

“It was rather _boring_ , truth be told,” Julian answers in a light, rather pleasant tone. “I assume you’re losing your affection for me, M, or else I can’t explain it. Am I getting all the dull missions now?”

“Thank you, 007. Get out.” Julian grins to himself, and he exits the room. Garak watches as he makes his way down the corridor, into the high-ceilinged room where the “boffins” work. A most curious word that won’t entirely go through the UT, but Garak doesn’t exactly mind. He likes these oddities of Human language. It almost makes him want to learn a few of them – _almost_. He comes to where several of them are working, the briefcase open at the end of the table as translators work through the language Garak had denoted as Russian.  

The briefcase lies forgotten, still open, and unexplored. Ah, the characters in the Bond novels might be rather clever, but not in _every_ case, and Garak must admit he enjoys the severe limit on their available technology. He makes sure Julian is looking away when he activates the case, and there’s a soft hiss of sound. A pulse comes from the briefcase and rings throughout the room, making the lights go out one by one, and making the huge boxes these ancient figures call “computers” die to nothing.

Julian freezes in his place, producing his Beretta from its holster, but guns won’t solve this little problem – every electronic device in MI6 is thrown out of operation, one by one by one, just like the dominoes Garak has seen O’Brien’s children play with.

It takes four minutes for Garak’s plan to be put into action. It was theoretically possible, of course, for Julian to come away from this series of events – if he had thought to examine the briefcase before dropping it into MI6, if he had noticed the trigger of the EMF pulse, if he had even brought the briefcase directly to Q rather than the others, but he hadn’t.

And if he had, well… Where would all Garak’s fun have gone?

The windows of MI6 are blown in, and dozens of black clad men burst into the windows, grasping hold of and subduing every MI6 agent in sight, throwing them down and cuffing each and every one of them before throwing them to the side. Julian manages to fight off two or three of them, but it’s not a fight he’s intended to win, and soon enough he’s cuffed just like the rest of them.

Of course, as Julian is dragged into M’s now empty office, he’s afforded some rather special treatment.

“Hello again, Mr Bashir,” Garak says sweetly as he enters the office. Julian has been thrown over M’s desk, and Garak moves forwards toward him. Taking the letter opener from M’s desk, he cuts through the fabric of Bashir’s ugly, grey suit, dropping it to the ground in pieces as he draws each slice of it away. “I suppose I’ll introduce myself this time.” Garak pulls Julian up by the cuffs, pushing him back down onto the desk, this time on his back. Garak reaches out, touching over the mark on Julian’s thigh. It must have hurt him to walk – it’s going to leave a lovely, black bruise over the next week or so, and Garak cannot wait to appreciate its blossom. “My name is Garak: _Mr_ Garak, if you don’t mind.”

Julian tries to pull himself up from the desk and knock his skull against Garak’s own, but Garak grabs him by the neck and stops him short. Silly of him, really – Garak’s skull is so much _harder_ than Julian’s own, and he hardly wishes for the young man to shatter.

“Now, MI6 is under _my_ control, now… This base of operations is, at least. Won’t you share with me some data?”

“I don’t think so,” Julian says, “But I might share with you my gun, if you’ll just hand it to me.”

“This one?” Garak asks, holding up Julian’s Beretta. Julian groans, and Garak chuckles, setting it aside for the moment. The walls of M’s office, on one side, are made of glass, and Garak is delightfully aware of how the MI6 command and employees can all _see_ Julian here, laid out as he is. What a delight! Julian always has been somewhat easily embarrassed, and this would humiliate even a Vulcan, Garak is sure.

Slicking his fingers with an oily lubricant, Garak puts forth his index finger, pressing against Julian’s entrance.

“What’s this?” Julian asks, but he cuts himself off with a soft groan. He’s doing his best to remain in character, of course, but his body hardly knows the difference – it feels Garak and it says _yes_.

“This? Why, it’s a public display, Mr Bashir… Might I call you Julian? Yes, I think I will.” Garak presses three of his fingers abruptly to the hilt, and Julian lets out a desperate, harsh whine. It’s a lot for him to take, all at once and with such minimal preparation, but Julian’s hips cant like the sexed-up little spy he’s meant to be playing. “One usually signs paperwork when it comes to new ownership, but I think this works, don’t you?”

“ _What_?” Bashir demands, self-righteously, and Garak chuckles as he twists his fingers to the right, laying his other hand on Julian’s thigh to steady him. “What- what…?”

“MI6 is mine. More importantly, Julian – _Agent_ 007 – _you_ are mine. Unless you have some darling little escape plan up your sleeve, but then, your sleeve is gone now, isn’t it?” Julian spits at him, and Garak feels the wetness hit against his neck. Oh, he had _hoped_ Julian would do that, or something similar. “I merely need to demonstrate to your hapless colleagues, you see. Monkey see, monkey do and all that.”

“Sounds like a rather naughty monkey,” Julian mumbles, and Garak has to stop himself from laughing – to do so would be rather out of character.

He takes the Beretta, drawing his wetted fingers over the muzzle of the gun, and Julian’s eyes go wide. “You cannot be serious.”

“Can’t I?” Garak asks, and he smiles down at the young man, slicking the gun up further. “Haven’t you always known you deserved this, Julian?” Garak leans in, slowly, and he stops with his mouth hovering over Julian’s, enjoying Julian’s heated, desperate breaths; he shifts the Beretta forwards, and he puts the gun to Julian’s entrance. “Haven’t you always wanted a rendezvous over M’s desk?”

“Who _are_ you?” Julian demands, and then he whimpers, because Garak pushes the gun forwards with a shift of his wrist. He had modified the design, of course, ensuring it was smooth and rather _safer_ for insertion than the original, but Julian is quivering in his place, and it seems to affect him rather a lot nonetheless.

“What if I pulled the trigger?” Garak asks, and with his free hand he grabs Julian by the hair, pulling it tightly and dragging Julian forwards, to face him. “What if I pulled it, Bashir, and spared you all the misery to come? Do you want that?”

“What misery?” Julian asks, and Garak chuckles against his mouth.

“Why, that would be telling… But I promise you, I’m going to take you to pieces, Julian. I’m going to take you to pieces, in front of MI6, and you’re going to tell me every secret you’ve ever known.” Julian breathes heavily, and he stares directly into Garak’s eyes.

“I don’t think I’ll need sparing,” Julian says. With an audible click, Garak pulls the trigger, and Julian flinches with a soft yelp, closing his eyes tightly and going stiff. Garak smirks, and he grabs Julian, pulling him close and kissing him hard. He kisses Julian the way he knows the young man adores to be kissed, dominating his mouth with his own, nipping at his lip and stealing the breath away from him, until Julian is breathless and dazed, naked over M’s desk.

“You think that now, my dear,” Garak murmurs. “But once you change your mind, it will be _much_ too late.” Garak leans in, grazing his teeth over the thin, easily scratched flesh of Julian’s collarbone as he draws the gun back, setting it aside, and then he murmurs, “I hope you’re ready, 007. This is going to be the _hardest_ mission you’ve ever faced.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I recently made a Star Trek Quiz that tells you what race you are! If you're interested in checking that out, it's [here!](http://coolandsurefriends.tumblr.com/post/159565302814/hey-guys-so-ive-been-setting-up-a-star-trek)
> 
> _Boyfriend Jack insisted on being credited because I, sleep-deprived as I was, momentarily forgot Ian Fleming's surname and asked him what it was. This is me, crediting him, the weirdo._


End file.
